


this secret language that we're speaking

by hearteyesfordays



Series: playing dirty [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (Not So) Secret Feelings, Blow Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Minor Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Phone Sex, Sex Under False Pretenses, Sex With A Proxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearteyesfordays/pseuds/hearteyesfordays
Summary: “Put your phone on speaker,” Parse says. “Leave it by the bed, and get your boyfriend in there to finish what I started.”Jack goes rigid. “You want to listen to me with Bittle?”“No,” Parse corrects, “I want him to listen. Because you're going to be talking to me. Only me.”
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Series: playing dirty [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749196
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	this secret language that we're speaking

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Magnets” by Disclosure ft. Lorde.

  
Parse calls while he's catching up on Jack's latest game. He likes to do that; he's constantly pulling up one or another of their replays so they can nerd out over strategy or pick apart mistakes. Jack likes that Parse likes it, that they're driven in the same way. That they tell the truth, even when it hurts. Of course, Jack likes Parse's praise best of all. It's almost Pavlovian, how quickly his body reacts to that proud lilt in his ear. If it's a good game, Jack won't last a period before he's shoving a hand down his pants.

This one's a really good game.

It's been almost two days, but Jack doesn't need to watch to follow Parse's color commentary. He's got the whole thing memorized, every last shift burned into his brain. He stretches out across his bed and imagines Parse mirroring him in some generic Canadian hotel room, eyes glued to his tablet while Jack destroys the Panthers. It might be his best performance all season. Parse hasn't mentioned that yet, but he will.

“What are you wearing?” Jack interrupts Parse's critique of his faceoff positioning to ask. He just wants to picture things clearly. Accuracy is important to him.

“What aren't I wearing?” Parse mumbles, his attention obviously on the game. “I'm freezing my nuts off, here.” He's still scratchy-voiced from his nap. Flannel pajamas, Jack decides, in Océanic colors like the ones Parse used to have. Maybe his Falcs zip-up that went missing a while back, hood doing nothing to conceal the mess underneath it. Parse's bedhead is just as stubborn as Parse is.

“Oh, nice stick,” Parse cuts into his thoughts. “Your boy 63 needs to work out some new moves, though. No one's falling for that backhand anymore.”

Jack files that away for Jonesy and skips back to Parse's wardrobe. “Aren't you supposed to be a hockey player?” he chirps, about two minutes too late to sound natural. “You can't handle a little cold weather?”

“Fuck off,” Parse says, “it is minus ten outside.” He's trying to sound annoyed, but Jack can hear his grin peeking out around the edges. “And that's Fahrenheit, not Canadian, so don't even try to act like you—Holy _shit_ , that was a monster check.” Parse lets out a breathy half-laugh. “Damn, Zimms, time to get Mashkov on the trade block. You can be your own enforcer.”

Jack ducks his head to hide his smile, which is stupid. It's not like Parse can see him. “Eyes on the play, Parson.”

“Relax, _Zimmermann_ , I can follow the puck and watch you plow through defensemen at the same time. Is that going be your thing now? Cause it's kinda hot.”

“You think I'm hot?” Jack thinks about that, thinks about Parse's eyes going dark while Jack knocks Josh Brown on his ass. 

Parse hums to himself, considering. “Little bit. I'm more into scorers.”

“I can score.” His lips feel tender when he licks them. It's no surprise; he's been working them over since he picked up the phone. Sometimes it's hard not to, when Parse talks. It's hard not to do lots of things.

“Oh yeah? Prove it.”

He will. “What's the time?” Jack keeps his voice as even as possible. He doesn't want to give it away.

“Five sixteen.”

That's almost—Jack stares blindly at his ceiling. In forty-five seconds, give or take, Tater's going to spring Marty up the ice, and Jack will fly in on the right side to receive his cutter. The pass will be slightly off-target, but Jack will pivot, reaching out with his stick, and—

Parse yells. “Between the legs?! Fucking—” His groan sends a heady thrill through Jack's blood. “Zimms, that's straight-up unfair.” 

“Because it's so hot?” Jack asks, and savors the charged silence that follows. He drags his hand across his belly and waits, tee shirt rucked up under his palm.

Parse sighs over the line, makes Jack's hips shift against the mattress. “You know I love it when you get pretty.”

Jack knows. There was a time he wasn't sure what was better: scoring pretty goals, or the way Parse swayed into him after, like he might just drop to his knees right there on the ice.

“So now I'm pretty?” Jack gives in and cups himself over his sweatpants, thumbs at the seam pressing into his dick. Down. Back. It's getting harder to keep his eyes open. He wonders if Parse can hear the catch in his breathing.

“—always pretty,” Parse is saying, voice dipping low. “You weren't always such a grandstander, but—”

“It must be you rubbing off on me.” 

“You wish I was rubbing off on you.” 

He does, actually; wishes Parse were there so Jack could wrestle him down and plant a knee between his thighs, take him for a ride. He wants to peel off those layers and get his hands on bare skin, warm Parse up the old-fashioned way. Wants to taste Parse's laughter when he urges Jack closer, and then press closer still, not a sliver of space between them, their bodies curling together perfectly, like always, like he was made for—

“Kenny,” he starts, and can't finish. They fuck in hotel rooms every few months. Get each other off on the phone. He's not supposed to be wishing for Parse in his bed at night. Not like this. 

“Jack?” Parse picks up on his mood shift, of course he does. He's always been too good at reading Jack. Which is why the smart money's always on keeping his mouth shut.

“What's happening here?” Jack blurts out, stupidly.

Parse goes quiet long enough for Jack's heart to start creeping up his throat. “That depends,” he says, finally. “What do you want to be happening, Zimms?”

The question stretches between them like a tightrope, danger lurking in every direction. If Jack puts a foot wrong—“I don't know how to answer that,” he says.

“Yes, you do.”

Jack's going to say something Parse will make him regret, if he's not careful. He hasn't been careful enough, lately. 

“C'mon, Zimms,” Parse prompts again, and it's too late for careful, anyway. Jack sucks in a shaky breath, then loses it in a rush, because that's his front door thudding shut. 

Bittle. He forgot.

“Shit,” Jack mutters. “I have to go.”

“What? Wait, Jack, you can't just—”

Jack hangs up. He hunches over, elbows on knees, and tries to calm his thundering heart. He's got to get it together. Bitty's clattering around the kitchen for the moment, but pretty soon he'll come looking for Jack. 

His phone chimes, the sound muffled by the coverlet.

_is he there with u?  
pass me over_

_Absolutely not._

_? just wanted to say thks 4 sharing  
ur bfs a good sport_

That's true. Bitty is a good sport, a better one than Parse could ever be. Parse never says die; he'd bend any rule, risk anything, if it meant he might win. How many times has Jack seen him prove it? 

_aces@bos nxt month  
u 2 free 4 dinner?_

_We're not doing that again._

That dinner was Jack's mistake. He should have made an excuse when Bitty wanted to tag along. Not that Parse helped. It's a miracle Bitty doesn't suspect anything, with the way Parse was running his mouth.

_:(( u didnt have fun last time?  
idk it sounded like u had fun_

That's really not the point. Jack types and re-types, backtracking his way through a response. He shouldn't encourage this. But he can't lie.

_I had fun._

His phone starts ringing in his hand. Jack fumbles at the screen, scrambling to answer the call before Bitty hears. “Would you stop fucking around?” he hisses. “You're going to get us caught.”

“No worries, Zimms,” Parse says, strangely light. “I have a better idea.”

A prickling sensation kicks off at the base of Jack's spine and flares out, lifts all the hair on his arms. Parse sounding like that means trouble, and Jack's already playing with fire. Any second now, Bittle's going to walk through the bedroom door.

“Unless you're not up for it.”

Parse is goading him, he knows that. It doesn't matter. The unrelenting truth of Jack's life is that he's up for anything, as long as it's Parse asking. That's how this whole thing happened. Why it's still happening. Jack unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Up for what?”

“Put your phone on speaker,” Parse says. “Leave it by the bed, and get your boyfriend in there to finish what I started.”

Jack goes rigid. “You want to listen to me with Bittle?”

“No,” Parse corrects, “I want him to listen. Because you're going to be talking to me. Only me.”

Blood rushes to Jack's face, heat radiating through his body. This is sick. Jack's sick too, for even considering doing this to Bitty, in front of Bitty. It should make him sick. “You are beyond fucked up,” Jack whispers.

Parse laughs at him, the edge of it twisting sharply in Jack's gut. “Well, I learned from the best. Right, Zimms?”

Jack's phone case creaks in his grip.

“Clock's ticking, Jack. Are you in or out?”

It should make him sick, not so hard he's tenting his sweatpants, so hard he's shaking with it. Jack activates the speaker and sets his phone down on the nightstand. “Quiet, Parse,” he says. “I'm talking.”

He calls Bitty into the bedroom.

“Well, what was that for?” Bitty asks, pink and pleased, after Jack's bent him backwards against the dresser and kissed the breath out of him.

Jack has to slow down so he can think, or he's going to fuck this up. His pulse is throbbing everywhere: at the base of his throat, in the tips of his fingers, down the length of his cock. “It feels like forever since I've kissed you.”

Bitty's smile goes wider. “Sweetie bear, it's been a week.”

“I know, I just—” Jack's knees wobble abruptly, adrenaline going to his head. He backs into the edge of his mattress and sits down hard. “I've been thinking about you.”

“Is that so?” Bitty tips his chin up, then situates himself on Jack's lap, arms draped over Jack's shoulders. “You spend a lot of time thinking about me on the road, Mr. Zimmermann?”

Jack can just see his nightstand at the corner of his eye, if he tilts his head. “Yes.”

“Alone time?” 

“Yes.” His ears are burning, he's not sure why. Parse must know that he does, that Jack isn't following his instagram for cat pictures. It's not a secret.

“Mmm.” Bitty wriggles closer, tucking his face into Jack's neck. “And just what exactly crosses your mind, while you're busy thinking all by your lonesome?”

Jack pulls them backwards along the bed, closer to the headboard. Closer to the nightstand. “Your hands. Your thighs. That mouth.” He cuts himself off before he can say more. Parse knows too much as it is.

Bitty looks up. “My mouth?” he asks coyly, tongue flashing pink against his teeth, and Jack's in so far over his head he might drown. But he can't stop now.

“You always did this thing,” he says, “back in the—back when we played together. Had your tongue poking out all game. I thought you did it on purpose, to make me crazy. But you're still doing it.”

“You must have been watching awful close, to notice a thing like that.”

“I was.” Jack swallows hard. “I am.” 

“My mama should've warned me about boys like you,” Bitty purrs, his eyelashes flicking down over his cheekbones. “Y'all like to talk real sweet, but you're only after one thing.” He brushes against Jack's erection and giggles when Jack jerks hard enough to shift Bitty on his lap, the bedsprings squeaking underneath them. “Isn't that right?” 

“I don't—” Jack holds his breath until his lungs protest. He can't answer that question. He can't even think straight.

“Hush, sweetheart,” Bitty soothes, and pushes at Jack's chest until he lies back against his pillows. “Let me take care of you.” He scoots down the bed, between Jack's legs. “I know what you want.”

“Yeah.” Jack's voice comes out rusty. “You always do.”

Bitty stops what he's doing and glances up, unguarded adoration in his smile.

Parse learned from the best. 

Jack looks away. It's a surprise, then, how quickly Bittle swoops down to engulf him in wet warmth. Jack barely stops himself from thrusting up and choking him on his cock. Parse would let him. Parse would let Jack use his mouth, and then force Jack's hips down and mark him with fingerprints, make Jack _ache_ , make Jack desperate enough to drag Parse up and lick his taste from Parse's tongue.

Jack grabs at his own thigh, digs his fingers in the way that Parse would. If he keeps his eyes closed, it's Parse's hand on his body, Parse's mouth making those wet sounds. Jack can't hold back a groan. He reaches out to pet at his hair, to flatten his cowlick. It feels so good. Parse always makes him feel so good.

A noise catches his attention, pulls him back to reality. Jack turns his head to the left, straining his ears. It could have been the sheets rustling, but—No, there it is again. A tiny hitch of breath.

“Are you touching yourself?” Jack won't get an answer, but he doesn't need one. He knows the sounds that Kenny makes; they're as familiar to Jack as his own. More familiar.

Bitty nods frantically around Jack's cock, his arm pumping away underneath him.

“I want to come down your throat while you get yourself off,” Jack says raggedly. He's so hard he's lightheaded lying down. “I want you to think about this when you're alone, think about me.” Jack covers his face with his forearm. He has to stop talking. He can't stop talking. “Say my name. I want to hear it, Ken—Can you, please?”

Bittle pulls off with a moan. “Jack,” he cries, “oh, Jack, honey—”

Jack focuses past it. He's teetering on the edge, desperate to hear from Parse, to know that they're in this together. Was that a whisper? A sigh? It had to be. “I just want you to touch me,” Jack confesses. The words stick in his throat, but he forces them out. “It's all I ever want.”

Bitty opens his mouth and swallows him back down. Jack sinks his teeth into his palm, his body tensing so hard it hurts, and comes in a long, shuddering wave. He gasps for air, hearing nothing but the pulse in his ears while Bitty sits up and finishes himself off in a spurt across Jack's thigh. It's not enough. 

“You are something else, Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” Bitty declares, after he wilts into Jack's still-heaving chest. “I might like to do that more often,” he adds shyly, his fingers skating across Jack's collarbone. “It's nice hearing you talk.”

“Sure,” Jack agrees, and pushes away the twinge of guilt. “Whatever you want.”

Parse will hold him to it.  
  
  
  



End file.
